I’ve been thinking about my writing practice recently.

Every Monday evening, I meet with my writing buddy. We set goals, encourage each other and, most importantly, keep writing.

Recently, one of my writing goals came to a natural end. As I thought about what might come next, I found myself asking a different question.

What if I haven’t been avoiding my memoir?

What if I have been becoming the person who could write it?

For a long time, I thought my writing projects were separate.

The poems. The family stories. The camogie newsletters. The research paper I’ve returned to again and again.

They each had their own purpose, but I often wondered if I was simply moving from one idea to another. If I was collecting projects rather than making progress on the one that mattered most.

Then I noticed something.

They were all asking the same three questions.

Who am I?

This is where my poetry lives. Writing poems has become a way of paying attention to my inner world — exploring memories, experiences and moments that have shaped me. Often, I don’t know what I think or feel until the words begin to appear.

Who do I love?

This is where my personal writing lives. It includes stories about my family, my community and the people who have mattered throughout my life. It has taught me the importance of noticing, remembering and honouring the relationships that have shaped me.

What can I contribute?

This is where my research lives. Returning to my paper over the past seven years has been a lesson in persistence, curiosity and trusting that my experiences and ideas might have something valuable to offer.

Seeing these three questions together changed how I think about my writing.

They weren’t competing projects. They weren’t distractions. They were teaching me.

Poetry taught me to listen to myself.

Personal writing taught me to pay attention to the people and communities that shaped me.

Research taught me to trust that my ideas could contribute something meaningful.

Each piece was teaching me something I needed for the next stage of my writing journey.

Perhaps that is how creativity works.

We rarely see the whole pattern while we are creating. We follow questions, explore ideas and collect experiences without knowing exactly where they will lead. It is only when we look back that we recognise the connections.

I often sit beneath an old oak tree to write poetry. There is something about that place that reminds me that growth is not always visible.

A tree spends years growing roots before anyone notices how tall it has become.

Perhaps creative work is like that too.

We follow questions.

We gather experiences.

We keep showing up.

Then one day, we look back and realise the roots have been growing all along.

I’m beginning to understand that writing a memoir isn’t simply about recording the events of my life. It’s about understanding how I became the person I am through the people I loved, the work I devoted myself to, and the meaning I made of it all.

The projects I once thought were taking me away from my memoir were quietly preparing me to write it.

Perhaps nothing was wasted.

Everything is practice.